Searching
by esking
Summary: Arthur's son Andrew grew up without a father, never quite believing the stories his mother had told him about why Daddy had never come home. When he graduates Andrew decides to find out for himself. Rated for character death. Now finished
1. Chapter 1

**Searching**

**Chapter 1: Andrew**

**Hey, guys. This is my second story, which requires a little bit of background info since technically it comes from a whole collection where this is already known, so here it is: longo time before the inception job party, Arthur had a wife, Laura, and a son named Andrew, who know nothing about his whole, you know, being a criminal thing. So you should know that. And now Andrew is all grown up. And cool. Which means this story actually takes place after Inception. In case you haven't noticed, I write odd author's notes. I also like muffins. No, that's a lie. I like chocolate chip muffins. So you should read it. Thanks. Also, Arthur's last name is Miller in this story (fake, for the purpose of the marriage license), because I love _Death of a Salesman_ (by Arthur Miller).**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Inception, it belongs to the obnoxious British genius (to whom I owe my existence).**

Outside, golden red leaves fluttered past the window, blown astray by a sudden gust of wind, which made the pane rattle in its wooden frame. But the weather was lost on Andrew Miller, who sat at the worn wooden desk in his attic room, scribbling on a sheet of paper. Laid out before him was a cork board, every square inch of which was obscured by a chaotic collage of pictures, newspaper clippings, maps, and handwritten sticky notes.

There was a photograph tacked at the very center depicting three people, frozen in time. On the left was a beaming blonde woman in her late twenties, with well-worn laugh lines and sparkling blue eyes. Next to her was a raven-haired man with pale skin, also smiling, with narrow eyes that were almost Asian in appearance. In his arms, the man held a chubby baby in a brightly colored sun hat, one hand flung wildly up towards the man's face.

Andrew had inherited his father's jet black hair and, so his mother told him, his attention to detail and aptitude for acquiring information he wasn't supposed to know. The cork board had been amassed over ten years, bits and pieces taken from carefully scrutinized newspapers, family photo albums, and password secured websites into which Andrew had hacked with ease. And still he knew so frustratingly little about his father.

He had the story which his mother, Laura, had told him when he was younger, and had asked every night without fail where his daddy was, and why he wasn't at home, like the fathers of the other boys at school. And without fail, Laura had told him how they had been high school sweethearts who married too young, and that Arthur had been unable to cope with the responsibility of raising a child when he himself was still so young.

There was also the story he had gleaned from bits of eavesdropped conversation between Laura and her mother, Catherine, the flimsy thread which he desperately tried to weave through the rest of his information, to make it all fit. Catherine often made cutting remarks about Arthur, and how he had been nothing but trouble from the start, how he'd never really cared for Laura, and how his work had always come first, even with a newborn son.

But neither of these stories sat well with Andrew. A small part of him knew that he was simply biased, not wanting to believe anything bad about the father he so desperately wanted to find. He ignored this part, telling himself that whatever the truth was, he would find it out for himself.

So Andrew made his decision. He was seventeen years old. It was time to act. With Running Start, he'd graduated high school early, and told everyone, including Laura, that he was going to spend the summer doing EuroRail with a friend, before flying to eastern China, and ending in Japan. this was not entirely true.

Yes, he was going to travel, but the first place on his agenda was a bit further south: Kenya. When doing a face recognition scan on Arthur through a corporate security database, he'd found two pictures tagged in connection to his father's, both of whom had been spotted together in Mombasa: Thomas Eames and Dominic Cobb. It was a slim shot to be sure-the alert was over 15 years old, but it was the only lead he had. Upon further investigation, absolutely nothing had surfaced about Eames. It was like he didn't exist. Cobb, however, was a different matter.

Andrew's first Google search had yielded several newspaper and online articles about Los Angeles native Dom Cobb, who, sixteen years previously, had been convicted of first degree murder and fled the country. With some clever dodging around the California Court of Justice security systems, Andrew was able to discover that there had never been a follow-up on the case, and, as far as anyone in California knew, Cobb was still MIA.

The interesting part was that Cobb's flagged appearance in Mombasa had occurred eight months _after _he reportedly fled the U.S.

Andrew had no idea why his father and Cobb would be tagged together, but he intended to find out.


	2. Finding Eames

**Chapter 2**

**Finding Eames**

**Thank you so much for reading! You make my world go round (no seriously, it's scary how fast this gets addicting. I live off reviews. Hint hint.) This is chapter 2 (duh), hope you enjoy. The faces will start getting familiar now. This one's still a little slow. Chapter 3 will be exciting, I promise.**

The stifling dusty heat of Mombasa lay as an oppressive blanket over the brown stone buildings. Grey exhaust and smoke issuing from the factories on the edge of the city intermingled into a suffocating smog, dimming the searing light of the white hot African sun. The endless intertwining maze of dirt and cobblestone streets and alleys were packed to bursting point with wares and people of all shapes and sizes, milling about in a great melting pot of sight and sound.

Beneath a tattered, faded awning in an open air bar, four men, three of them dark-skinned and curly haired, the fourth a tanned Westerner, sat hunched over a poker table decorated with over a dozen empty beer bottles.

At this point, it wasn't even the alcohol that made them guzzle the beer down so greedily. It was merely that in the dry heat, anything would soother a parched throat, and the publicly available water was so nauseating, the bar tender refused even to serve it.

Needless to say, all the men were becoming quite pathetically inebriated. All, that is, except the Westerner.

Thomas Eames had made it a personal goal early on in his life to develop an extremely high alcohol tolerance-and it had certainly been worth the two-year-long head ache. Thanks to his perseverance, Eames could now partake in the most extensive round of drinks, even those which reduced most men to drooling heaps, while his own acumen remained nearly intact.

Eames smiled to himself, spinning two of his chips between his fingers with impressive dexterity even for one who had not recently consumed upwards of five questionably produced beers. Drunken laughter assailed his ears, but that was alright. The man to his left laid down his cards and so did Eames. His smile widened. He scooped the small pile of bills and coins toward himself. As one, all three of his companions let out a collective groan.

"Well, gentlemen," said Eames as the largest of the men's face turned down into an intimidating scowl and he began to rise unsteadily, but nevertheless threateningly, to his full and considerable height. He let out an abstruse curse and Eames took a step away from the table, still grinning. "This has been lovely, but I feel I must abscond and vanish without a trace before one of you breaks my scrawny neck. I'll leave you to it." And with that, he deftly wove his way through the cramped chairs and tables towards the street, while the other three stumbled in his wake.

"Cheers, Ahmad!" he called to the bar tender.

"Farewell, Mr. Eames!" Ahmad shouted back, laughing.

Eames shouldered his way through the crowd and out into the street, shoving aside a pale, and frankly bewildered looking teenage boy.

Andrew could not believe how incredible hot it was. Beads of sweat slid down his forehead and soaked his shirt as he nervously trod up the crowded, dusty road, squinting in the inescapable sunlight despite the cheap pair of sunglasses he had purchased at the airport. This was ridiculous! He'd always been a planner. He'd been working up to this for over ten years. How was it that with so much preparation, he was still so unprepared? Was he really that desperate? He sighed and continued his trudging journey up the street.

Finally, he found an empty seat on a wooden bench and collapsed onto it, transferring his overstuffed backpack to his lap. He gasped with relief and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. From a side pocket of the backpack, he extracted a half full Nalgene water bottler, unscrewed the top, and took a swig. The water was lukewarm but refreshing all the same.

He looked up and down the street and let the realization wash over him that he had absolutely no idea where he was going. He had come to Mombasa with a name and half his college savings, and was now hopelessly lost.

As though lamenting his predicament, Andrew's stomach gave a forlorn grumble. He was starving. He forced his legs to straighten and once again began trundling through the street, now on the lookout for a restaurant or bar.

At the end of the street, as it forked off into three tributaries, he spotted a small stone building with open walls. It was filled with tables, at which sat mostly men in traditional African garb. They were talking and drinking amiably, but most importantly, they were eating. Andrew pushed forward with renewed vigor, his stomach growling more fiercely, and thought it could sense the nearness of nourishment.

At last, Andrew reached the entrance to the restaurant. It was packed and smelled of sweat and beer, but Andrew didn't mind. He drew up to the bar, just as a white man pushed past him rather roughly, yelling in a good-natured voice, "Cheers, Ahmad!"

Andrew pulled back, flinching at the man's loud voice in his ear. From behind him, he heard another man shout, laughing, "Farewell, Mr. Eames!"

Andrew turned, staring at the man's retreating back. "_Eames?"_ he muttered.

The bar tender raised an eyebrow when he saw Andrew approach the counter, and said in broken English, "Aren't you little young?"

"Was that Thomas Eames?" Andrew asked.

"The one and only," said Ahmad.

"Where is he going?"

Ahmad shrugged. "Who knows. Some other gambling den. He be back tomorrow. Count on it."

"Thank you."


	3. A Friendly Chat

**Chapter 3**

**A Friendly Chat**

**Hi everyone! Thank you so much to my reviewers (both for this and The Gun), you really bolstered my confidence. Even though you're probably only furthering my addiction, but that's air through the engine. Here's Chapter 3 (as you may have been able to glean from the title). More Eames coming your way. On a personal note, I learned today that nuclear fusion can be funny, and does not contribute to the greenhouse effect because, and I quote, "nuclei are not made out of greenhouses." Hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Inception, that's Mr. Nolan's. I do own Andrew, he is mine and mine alone, except sometimes I share him on rare occasions like holidays and Tuesdays. Ahmad, too, is mine. He is terrific at Stratego.**

The next day, Andrew rose early, even though he hadn't fallen asleep until late into the night, kept up by a mixture of adrenaline and alarm at the boisterously passionate noises issuing from the next room.

Jittery with anticipation, he hopped down the rickety stairs of the hotel two at a time, clutching a folder containing every single bit of information he had collected about Arthur and his possible associates, completely consumed by the hope that he was finally, _finally_, going to get some answers.

He arrived at the bar a few minutes later. It was much less crowded at this early hour, patronized by only a few men scattered about at tables, eating plates of _nyama choma_, and sipping fresh-brewed coffee out of chipped mugs. Andrew edged up to the bar and asked Ahmad, "Where does Eames usually sit?"

Ahmad pointed to a table in the far corner. "He get here around an hour."

Andrew started to walk toward it, but the swarthy Kenyan called him back. "Hey! You eat if you sit."

Sheepishly, Andrew pulled a few shillings out of his pocket and bought an order of _chapatis._

With the food, he meandered his way to the back table and sat down facing the interior of the restaurant to wait.

Exactly one hour and fourteen minutes later, Eames came into the bar. He was much less jovial than last Andrew had seen. He didn't speak as he walked towards Andrew's corner, and Andrew thought he detected a slight hunch in the man's shoulders, and a distinct shuffling quality to his gait.

Eames kept his eyes darting back and forth around the room, but it wasn't until he was only a few meters away that he caught sight of the table's occupant. Hi eyes widened in momentary surprise, and Andrew's stomach flipped over in a sudden surge of nerves, but then Eames grinned, as though he was sharing some sort of inside joke.

"I have to say," he said, sitting down opposite Andrew, looking on the verge of laughter, "that _is_ impressive."

"Excuse me?" said Andrew, taken aback.

Eames' grin slipped as he studied Andrew more intently. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, who the _bloody hell_ are you?" There was a soft click. Andrew frowned, confused. "That is a gun, " said Eames, all traces of smile gone, replaced by a terrifyingly emotionless mask. "Tell me who you are."

"Hey, whoa," said Andrew, his voice considerably higher, "I just wanted to-"

"_Tell me who you are," _Eames repeated.

"My name is Andrew Miller!" Andrew squeaked "Please, I just hoped you might be able to help my find my dad!"

"And who might that be?"

"Arthur Miller."

Eames relaxed, and leaned back in the wooden chair, making it groan in protest. "Now that I believe. Of course he would come up with a boring name like Miller. How old are you, Andrew?"

"I'm seventeen," Andrew said, not yet daring to relax himself.

"Jesus, you look just like him," Eames said softly. "You want to find him, you say.

Andrew nodded.

Seeming genuinely curious, Eames asked, "How did you find me?"

Andrew explained his ten year search, and how it had led him to finding his and Cobb's names on the corporate database which he'd hacked.

"You hacked into Cobol Engineering's mainframe?" said Eames.

Andrew nodded again. After a moment, he said, "Mr. Eames, I really don't see how this is relevant. Can you tell me about my dad or not?"

"I _could,_" said Eames. "Though, I'm not sure you'd like what you heard."

"What do you mean?"

"Well," sighed Eames dramatically, "I'm certainly not one to sugar coat. The Arthur that I knew was a thief and a killer, and a damned good one too, albeit lacking a little in the imagination department."

Andrew felt all the air vanish from his lungs. "A k-killer?"

"On occasion," said Eames casually, "when the situation demanded. "And I'll tell you, he didn't take bollocks from anyone. 'Cept Cobb, of course, but that's a different matter altogether."

Andrew didn't dare believe his ears. This was too good to be true. Here, sitting before him, was a man who knew everything about his father, everything that had happened since he'd vanished from his life all those years ago. Andrew took a deep breath, steeling himself for the truth.

"Tell me everything."

"Very well."

_ "I heard Palmer's got himself a new point man."_

_ Eames looked up from the letter which he was transcribing. McAvoy was standing a few feet away, in the center of the workshop, looking at the back of his colleague. Avery swiveled his chair away from his PASIV device. "Oh, indeed?"_

_ "Yeah," said McAvoy. Eames tensed. He'd been working for McAvoy for six months now, six months that had taught him that his employer in a temper was something to be avoided at all costs, and right now he was working himself up into a good rage. "Some teenager called Arthur."_

_ "What a blooming copy cat," said Avery in a bored voice, returning to the briefcase. "Why do I care?"_

_ "Because he hired the kid in preparation for hitting Stephen Miles."_

_ This caught Avery's attention. "In he _mad_?"_

_ "Who is Stephen Miles?" asked Eames._

_ As though he hadn't heard, McAvoy said, "You know, I'm beginning to think he is. But we can use it to our advantage."  
>At this point, Eames recognized that the situation was much more dangerous than McAvoy in a temper. This was McAvoy with an idea. Eames hated McAvoy<em>'s _ideas. The last one he'd had had involved Eames disguising himself as a hooker. Enough said._

_ "Who is Stephen Miles?" he asked again._

_ Avery, too, ignored the question. "How?"_

_ "If we let Miles know they're coming, he can take 'em out, and we can move in and snap up Arthur."_

_ "Why do we need another point man," asked Avery. Then, looking at Eames, he added, "Or another teenager, for that matter?"_

_ McAvoy gave him a pitying look, like Sherlock Holmes regarding Watson. "My friend, can you imagine how much we'd get selling a point man with four years of experience before he can even drink?"_

_ "So you're gonna train him?" asked Eames, giving up on his previous question._

_ "Looks like you get a new playmate."_

**A/N _Nyama choma _and _chipatis_ are real traditional Kenyan food. The former is literally roasted meat, and is usually beef short ribs, and the latter is a type of flat bread also found in India. Both are delicious and I strongly recommend.**

**As always, thanks for reading, please review, as it brings me joy and at times makes me bounce delightedly, inducing concern and fear in those in my vicinity.**

**-esking.**


	4. We Tried It

**Chapter Four**

**"We Tried It…"**

**Special thanks to all of you who are sticking with me! When I decided to post this all, I didn't realize how long winded I'd made Eames, but I promise I'm going somewhere (which isn't something I can always say). I wrote a new song, to the tune of a minor version of Three Blind Mice: "I like muffins/ they taste good/ muffins are delicious/ yes they are/ I'm going to eat chocolate now/ meow/ meow/. Thanks for reading.**

**Disclaimer: Inception still belongs to Senior Nolan, Andrew is still mine. Ahmad has acquired a pet koala. Don't ask me where.**

"So what happened?" asked Andrew. "What did Stephen Miles say."

"Well," said Eames, taking a bite of Andrew's _chipati_, which had lain forgotten while Eames was speaking, "I'd since learned that Miles was to extraction what Al Capone was to Chicago. Nothing, I mean _nothing_, went on without his knowing. So, as you can imagine, he already knew Palmer's intentions, and he refused McAvoy's request for Arthur. Apparently old Miles had been keeping an eye on him, saving him for his own _protégé._ That was the first I heard of Dom Cobb…"

_"Who does he think he is?" McAvoy paced furiously back and forth, waving his hands wildly about. "What, so he's just been grooming for himself, saving the best?"_

_ "I really don't see what you're so upset about," yawned Avery. "We don't even _need_ a point man."_

_ "I matters because now Cobb has been given success in a hand basket! What has he ever done? NOTHING, that's what. Except bang Miles' daughter!"_

_ Avery shifted very slightly, and Eames saw his hands curl momentarily into fists, then he relaxed , and said reasonably, "A point man isn't everything." Cobb may not have it as easy as you think."_

_ McAvoy shook his head, unconvinced. "Cobb doesn't deserve Arthur."_

"Well, nothing happened for awhile," said Eames. "Several months passed, we did another job. I thought McAvoy had decided to let things lie. Turned out not so. He had another idea…"

_"…and we'll need a new chemist," McAvoy concluded, finishing a long list of changes he was planning on affecting in their operation._

_ "What's wrong with regulation Somnacin?" said Avery._

_ "We need something stronger. We'll have to do more in a shorter amount of real time."_

_ "I'm starting to develop serious misgivings about this job."_

_ Eames nodded in agreement. "You've not even told us what it is yes."_

_ McAvoy took a deep breath, avoiding eye contact with both of his colleagues._

_ "John?"_

_ "Inception."_

_ Avery laughed. Eames looked from one to the other in confusion. "What's inception?"_

_ "It's a joke," Avery assured him. "Inception's not possible. McAvoy's not in his right mind."_

_ "That could be quite true,," said McAvoy. "But I can't let Cobb keep that Arthur kid."_

_ "Oh, for crying out loud!" Avery groaned. "Will you just _drop it_?"_

_ "I can't! Just listen: We pop in, easy as usual, poke around, persuade him he doesn't want the kid, and leave. He'll do the rest for us. Decide he doesn't like Arthur, fire him, and we come sweeping in to the rescue, arms open. It's brilliant!"_

_ "It's _insane!"_ cried Avery. "You're seriously talking about performing inception on a trained extractor! It'll never work! You're going to get us all killed."_

_ "If it doesn't work, what's stopping us from just disappearing? Where's the physical evidence? Cobb will have nothing. Believe me, it'll work."_

"I won't bore you with the scientific details. Not sure I'd be able to explain them even if I wanted to. To shorten a very long and painful story, we didn't succeed. Cobb's subconscious…well, it was sort of like an atomic bomb versus bows and arrows. And so, my meeting your father was delayed once more.

"Eventually, Avery, McAvoy and I went our separate ways. I'd gained enough of a name to get steady work; forgery is a surprisingly sought-after skill. And finally the day came when Dom Cobb himself appeared, and made his request."

"You're quite the story teller," said Andrew, only half sarcastically. "Maybe you should retire and take over from Morgan Freeman."

Eames shuddered, staring at him. "Now that is just downright unnerving. You've _never_ met your father?"

"Not that I remember. But I know he was home…at least for a picture."

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Reviews are appreciate and will induce happy-dancing. Stay tuned for an impromptu appearance by Ahmad's koala, and a valiant battle with a dragon…no I'm kidding, there's no dragon. Or is there? Find out in Chapter 5: Puff the Magic Dragon.**

**-esking**


	5. Puff the Magic Dragon

**Chapter 5**

**Puff the Magic Dragon**

**Greetings people to whom I am eternally grateful! Welcome to installment number 5. I would like to forewarn you that while all the other chapters of "Searching" have been copied from a premeditated story, this chapter will be largely made up on the fly, so bear with me. **

**Disclaimer: Inception belongs to Monsieur Nolan, Andrew, Ahmad, and Mutua (whom you will meet very soon) are mine, all mine. Although if you so desired to use them, I may be willing to make an exception…but only if it's a Tuesday.**

_Eames sat hunched on his bar stool, a half empty glass in front of him. All around echoed the typical Friday night din of a New York club. A trivia host was speaking in a back room, and nearly all the tables were filled with people, some still in pressed and trimmed business clothes, others in deliberately flirtatious, gaudy attire (primarily females, these last ones), celebrating the commencement of the weekend._

_ Eames himself was not feeling quite so cheerful, and coming here had only made him feel resentful towards the merry makers, and towards the showy neon lights advertizing Budweiser and Heineken, which made his own mood feel that much darker by comparison. Work had been slow lately. He'd even had to stoop to a down and dirty counterfeiting, no dreaming involved, and at only 10% share, far lower than his usual fee. He ordered another round, dimly thinking that all these drinks were not helping his financial situation. And yet somehow, he found he didn't care all that much. The beer tasted better with every mouthful, and he was really quite thirsty. _

_ The problem he found himself facing was that the alcohol was taking little to no effect on his level of awareness, and what he really needed now was to be…not aware. Still as he sat, after his umpteenth glass, he was able to spin his totem-the two poker chips-between his thumb and forefinger with as much dexterity as ever. However, the inebriation was enough to keep him blind to his companion until the man beside him turned and said, "You can rub them together all you want, they're not gonna breed."_

_ "Excuse me?" said Eames, swiveling on his stool. The man before him was about Eames' own age, maybe a year older. He was clean shaven, and carried a certain swarthy quality, incongruous to his light skin. His hair was enviably thick and a dark blonde which reflected the red neon lighting of the Guinness advertisement in the window behind him. His deep, intense eyes regarded Eames with a mixture of curiosity and something else Eames couldn't quite place._

_ The man nodded to the chips in Eames' hand. "The chips. You can…" he broke off at Eames' expression. "It was just something my father used to say."_

_ "Right," said Eames. "Not to be rude, but who the bloody hell are you?"_

_ "Dom Cobb," said the man, holding out a hand._

_ Eames stared at it for a moment, fighting to remain neutral. McAvoy's angry words still echoes in his minds, and Eames knew that he was looking at the man for whom he had suffered through more rants and rages than he cared to remember. But he had to admit that the protégé of Stephen Miles merited, if nothing else, an ear. He shook. "How may I help you?"_

_ "I hear that you could provide me with some background references, if I was so inclined as to be hired by a certain, rather security tight company."_

_ "You hear right," said Eames carefully. "Is that all?"_

_ "Should be. Unless you wouldn't be opposed to hanging around. We could always use an extra hand, you see."_

_ Eames nodded slowly, as thought seriously weighing the options, trying not to show his delight and excitement at his first legitimate job in weeks. "I think I might be able to do that. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cobb."_

"And that was the first time I met Arthur. He was twenty at the time, only two years younger than I." Eames chuckled. "Blimey, that was fun."

"What was?" asked Andrew, leaning forward eagerly.

"Messing with him," said Eames. At Andrew's confused look, Eames said, "Arthur and I were about as different as they come. He'd stiff and unemotional. Like a robot. He needs everything ordered and compartmentalized. I'm more, shall we say…" He raised his arms, gesturing around the bar, and Andrew had to admit, the smoky air and rowdy atmosphere spoke for itself, "cavalier. We didn't get along."

"But then…" Andrew began, wondering why he was talking to this man who apparently didn't even like his dad.

Eames laughed again. "Don't take it personally. Well, maybe you should. You're just like him. But he was the best point man I ever knew. Pure genius, even if he was a stick-in-the-mud. We worked-" but the rest of Eames' sentence was cut off by an angry, bull-like roar.

"EAMES!"

Eames twisted around, Andrew looking past his shoulder. A burly, dark-skinned man possessing an impressively large and bushy black mustache stood near the bar, flanked by two others, all wearing uniform expressions of deepest loathing. They lumbered towards the table, bloodlust in their eyes.

"He's early," Eames said softly to Andrew, who was suddenly paralyzed. He'd spent his entire life researching, every action taking him one step closer to his father. He'd never so much as kicked a soccer ball. Eames, however, seemed much more comfortable with the looming violence. With a certain loping grace, he stood up to face the formidable arrivals. The sight was somewhat ridiculous, as Eames was a good head and a half shorter than the man, and Andrew was suddenly put in mind of the tale of David and Goliath, although he felt that this fight wouldn't turn out so well for the small man.

"Cheers, Lisimba," said Eames, perfectly calm.

"We want our money back," snarled Lisimba, lowering his enormous face so it was level with Eames'. "We want what you stole."

"Ah, my friends," said Eames, tragically dramatic, as though he was in a production of Hamlet, "never gamble that which you cannot afford to lose. You have been justly served." His eyes moved to the other two, who stood a few feet behind Lisimba, glaring. "You too, Bausi, Boma. Such is the way of life."

"I'll show you 'way of life!'" Lisimba snarled. His hand closed around Eames' shirt front, and he lifted Eames up until his toes barely touched the floor. His other hand closed into a fist and his arm wound back, ready to strike.

Out of nowhere, a streak of grey shot toward Lisimba's face, and he released Eames, wailing and thrashing about, trying to ward off the attacker. Andrew gaped as he realized that the grey thing was a furry bear-like creature with protuberant, circular ears, and claws which were, at the moment, fastened to Lisimba's great mustache, as though trying to pry it from his face. Lisimba let out an anguished bellow, and Bausi and Boma, shaking off their shock, moved forward to help. Boma reached his hand toward the animal, but a second later squealed and leapt backward several paces, cradling a bleeding finger. Bausi, too, tried to assist Lisimba, but came out of the tussle with four parallel deep gashes across his cheek.

After what seemed an eternity, a loud voice shouted, "Mutua, down!" and immediately the animal hopped off of Lisimba, and plodded on four furry legs toward Ahmad, who stood in front of the bar, fighting to keep a smile off his face. The animal, which Andrew could now see clearly as a koala, sat contentedly on Ahmad's shoulder, gazing innocently at the three men with huge black eyes. Lisimba was oozing blood from several deep cuts across his face and neck, and good half of his mustache was torn from his lip. His shirt, too, was torn, and part of it had fallen away to reveal an intricately designed dragon which twisted around his right pectoral muscle.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Lisimba!" said Ahmad, with a commendable attempt at sincerity. "Mutua likes mustaches."

Lisimba cast a glowering look at Eames, who, unlike Ahmad, was laughing openly at their misfortune. Lisimba looked as though he would like to take another swing at Eames, but glancing nervously at the little koala, thought better of it, and stormed out of the bar, Boma and Bausi stomping along in his wake.

Chuckling, Eames returned to his seat, and took a bite of _chapati_. "Well, that was a new experience. Where was I?"

"When did you last see my dad?" Andrew asked, tensing, knowing that he was about to get his answer.

**A/N: I apologize to you all for leading you on about the dragon. I had planned to make the tattoo more prominent, but the story just didn't go that way. Mutua, Lisimbi, Boma, and Bausi are all real African names, though each was taken from a different culture. They mean respectively, "reconciles differences", "lion", "fortress", and "he sharpens knives". (Caspian, that last one was for you.) I hope you enjoyed, and your patience is about to pay off…Dun dun dun. **


	6. The Beginning of theEnd

**Chapter 6**

**The Beginning of the First Part of the Imminent but not Quite Arrived End**

**Special thanks to Echo 101, for your supportive reviews! Thanks to anyone else who's reading this. I don't own Inception, I do own Mutua, and all the others. Except Eames, Arthur, and Fischer, who will drop in soon. *Spoiler!* But not really. Here goes nothing.**

_Jubilant jazz music filled the lavishly furnished ballroom, which came complete with freshly polished wooden floor and three crystal chandeliers. Women in brightly colored dresses, bedecked with jewels and revealing expansive amounts of lovely skin, twirled gaily across the dance floor or sat at the white cloth covered, circular tables arranged along the edges of the room, accompanied by tuxedoed men._

_ Eames took a sip of rose champagne. It was superb. He swished it around in his mouth, savoring the feel of the tiny bubbles bursting along his tongue. Alcohol always tasted so much better in real life. His grey eyes scanned the crowd as he waited. The invitation was still in his pocket, creased and wrinkled from the number of times he'd folded and unfolded it, checking that it was, in fact, real. Someone at this party was extremely powerful, and wanted Eames for a job._

_ He'd never been south out in this manner before. For the most part, he was sought out by other extractors, not their rich employers, and extractors kept infamously tight coffers, not likely to spend money they didn't have to in order to impress a person who was merely a tool, a means to an end._

_ There was a static thumping from across the room, and a magnified voice said, "Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you're enjoying your evening." There was a smattering of applause as everyone turned toward the now lit stage, were a man in a white tuxedo and sporting a crimson silk bow-tie was now standing, microphone in hand. "I know I am. And now it's time to show your appreciation. Plus, I need the bus fare home."_

_ A ripple of appreciative laughter passed through the audience. Eames continued to turn his gaze discreetly left and right. If anyone was going to make contact, it would be now, while everyone was paying attention to the speaker._

_ A light hand touched his shoulder. "Come zis way, Mistah Eames," said a whispery voice. Eames nodded and followed a straight-backed, silver-haired man across the back of the room and through a pair of red velvet double doors. they emerged into a grey concrete corridor. Pipes and wires ran along the low ceiling, and the grey walls were inset with grey metal maintenance doors._

_ The sliver-haired man led Eames down hallways and through doors until finally he stopped at another door, identical to all the rest. He held it open, and Eames entered, and froze._

_ Standing in the room were three people: just to Eames' left, leaning against the wall, deceptively casual, was a tall, thuggish man with arms folded across a barrel shaped chest and buzzed blonde hair. The second man Eames knew very well. He was thin and wiry, with jet black hair and sharp features, stonily emotionless as he looked at Eames with intelligent brown eyes. Arthur was easily identifiable._

_ The third man, however, Eames did not recognize for several moments. He had a sharp nose and high, pronounced cheekbones beneath opalescent blue eyes. His thin lips were pressed together, and upturned at the corners in what must have been intended as a triumphant smile._

_ "Robert Fischer," said Eames, bravely attempting his own smile. "An absolute pleasure to see you again. Arthur." Arthur inclined his head._

_ "Hello, Mr. Eames."_

_ There was an awkward pause. Eames whistled tunelessly through his teeth. "Well, not that this hasn't been an absolutely lovely reunion, but if that's all, I have a party to get back to." He turned towards the door, but the man who had escorted him moved sideways, blocking Eames' path._

_ "I'm afraid not, Mr. Eames," said Fischer. "You see, you and your friends cost me something very precious."_

_ Eames sighed. Perfectly recalling Peter Browning's voice, he said, "Oh, Robert. it was just business."_

_ Fischer's jaw tightened, and Eames grinned. He glanced over at Arthur, who rolled his eyes. He actually _rolled his eyes_. They were in a potentially life-threatening situation, and he could still annoy Arthur. This made Eames feel quite proud of himself. Then his brain whirred into action. The door wasn't locked. There were the two body guards and Fischer. Fischer was a pansy, he wouldn't be a problem. If Eames and Arthur acted at the same time, they could take a guard each by surprise, and be on Fischer before he had time to react. Eames sneakily appraised the big guy by the door out of the corner of his eye. His shoulders were tensed, and his hand was on his holster. Not the best situation. But not the worst. Tense muscles would slow his reaction time. Eames slid his gazed sideways to the silver-hair man, who now stood behind Arthur. As he watched, the man yawned. Perfect._

_ Fischer was still speaking,"…willing to grant you clemency, in exchange for the whereabouts of your boss, the grand master. Dominic Cobb."_

_ Eames spluttered in indignation. "Grand master?_ Cobb?_ He wasn't grand master of anything. _I _masterminded the whole operation. It was _my _plan all along!"_

_ This got Arthur's attention. He looked quizzically at Eames, the way he always did, as though not quite believing Eames could be as obnoxious as he sounded, and Eames half expected him to make another condescending remark about Eames' immaturity. But all Eames needed was eye-contact. "This is just like L.A. in the rain."_

_ "How is it…" Fischer began._

_ At the same moment, Arthur and Eames both spun and landed punches on their respective guards. The man by the door yanked out his fun, but Eames chopped his wrist and the gun clattered to the floor. Eames dove for it, caught it, and squeezed off a shot up at the thug. He cried out in pain, clutching his shoulder. Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, Eames pulled himself up, wrapped his hand around the man's neck, and rammed his head against the concrete wall as hard as he could, and pulled the door open. He looked around just in time to see Arthur throw the silver-haired man into the corner, where Fischer stood, gaping, as though he couldn't believe his eyes._

_ "Shall we?" Eames called, tucking the gun into his pocket and moving out in to the hallway._

_ "Right behind you."_

**A/N: Caspian, now that you've finished your special project, you really have no excuse not to read this, so you should review. So should everyone else, but especially you. Thanks for reading. Peace, love, and world domination. (James Patterson).**


	7. The End part 1

**Chapter 7**

**You Now Get to Decide Whether This is Your Last or Second to Last Chapter.**

**Greetings, one and all. Your journey is almost finished. Damn you person who told me that the only part of my stories you read is the Author's Note! Now I have to say something interesting. Well, here's something interesting. There's one AFTER each chapter too! Okay, here's something interesting: December 22nd is the winter solstice (extra credit question on the semester physics final). Yes, I'm just going to do the chapter now. No more interestingness for you. Ha, my computer doesn't say that interestingness is misspelled! WIN FOR WORD 2003!**

**Disclaimer: Don't own Inception, do own Mutua (who can be a pain in the you-know-where sometimes. Caspian, I expect appreciation for that.) **

_They sprinted down the corridor leaving Fischer and his unconscious guards behind. Several minutes later, they burst out a set of grey double doors into a back parking lot occupied by a dozen or so white vans and other maintenance vehicles. Eames pulled on the handle of one of the vans and the door swung open. He hopped lightly into the seat. _

_ "Want a lift?" he asked. _

_ "I think I'll walk," said Arthur, shaking his head. His face was cast into shadow by the street lamp behind it, but Eames could swear he detected the hint of a smile. "Nice seeing you again."_

_ "A pleasure as always," said Eames. He watched Arthur walk across the street and off into the darkness before pulling out the van's circuit board and hotwiring the engine. He thought about leaving a parting gift for Fischer, but just then, faint, angry shouts reached his ears, and he turned out into the street and drove away._

Andrew waited, but Eames remained silent. "Is that it?" he asked.

Eames nodded. "Yeah. That was the last time I saw him."

"So you don't know where he is!"

"You asked me to tell you _about_ him, not where he was. You wanna know that, go and find Ariadne in Paris. She'll know, more likely than I would anyways." Eames stood up.

"But where do I find her?" Andrew called after Eames' retreating back. He wove his way through a much thicker crowd than had been present when he'd entered, towards the bar.

"On your tab, Mr. Eames?" said Ahmad.

"No, I'll pay," said Eames, setting a few bills on the counter. "I'm not coming back." He patted Mutua once on the head, and started for the door.

Andrew, coming to his senses, yanked on his back pack and hurried after Eames. The second he emerged from the shade of the bar, he was blinded by the white hot sunlight. Squinting, he pressed forward desperately, uncaring of whom or what he knocked over. He turned frantically left and right, searching for the head of sandy blonde hair. _There!_ He ran again, buffeted from all directions.

"Eames!" he bellowed. "Wait! Please, wait!"

And then he was nose to nose with the British man. "No, I will not wait. We're done. Stop following me. You'll only get hurt. I've done more for you than I would have had your father been anyone else. You want more, find Ariadne. The architecture department of the Sorbonne. But leave me alone." He vanished once more into the crowd.

Andrew could only stare, rooted to the spot.

_Two days later, Paris_

The information woman at the Sorbonne had, in a rather patronizing way, told him that Ariadne was no longer a student there, and that if he wanted, he could talk to the architecture professor. She gave him directions and sent him on his way, shaking her head in a very, well, _Parisian_ fashion.

The architecture professor's office was the near end of a long corridor floored and walled with light brown wood which gleamed as though newly polished. Andrew peered through the window, but the office was dark and clearly unoccupied. Hoping that perhaps he'd just gone out for coffee, or to the restroom, Andrew wandered further down the hall, looking idly into the other rooms, most of which were also dark. The room at the very end of the hall was light, however, although upon hope-filled investigation, Andrew realized that it was merely because the theater style classroom had floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall with flooded it with natural light. Andrew sighed, thinking he might as well return to the hospital and try again tomorrow, but paused as he caught sight of the plaque beside the door. It read: Architecture-Stephen Miles. It was identical to the one beside the office, but Andrew hadn't registered it fully until just now. Stephen Miles was the man from Eames' story, who had trained Dom Cobb. It couldn't be a coincidence, could it? Heart pounding, Andrew pushed open the door.

At first, he'd though the room was empty, but as he descended the steps toward a cluttered desk completely covered with books and papers, he spotted a head of cotton white hair. He cleared his throat, and the man looked up.

His face was wrinkled as an old treasure map, yet his eyes were piercingly clear, even from this distance. Andrew felt as though he was being X-rayed.

"May I help you," said the man with a pleasant British accent.

"I'm…" Andrew struggled to find his voice. _Ariadne!_ His mind cried, but his lips wouldn't move. "Mmmm…Ariadne. I-Do you know where Ariadne is?"

The man's eyebrows raised an inch or two. "Yes," he said, "I do." He scribbled something down on a scrap of paper and held it out. Andrew didn't move. "Well, come on boy. I'm an old man, you can come at get the address with your young legs."

Andrew stumbled forward and took the piece of paper, on which a number and the name of a road were written in small, neat print. "Thank you," he managed, and hurried out of the classroom.

The address had led him to a small building just of Place St. Michel, and Andrew climbed a small set of stairs to the second floor, where he was met by a cheerful green door. He knocked three times.

The door swung open to reveal a tiny woman with shoulder length brown hair and chocolate colored eyes, which roved up from Andrew's feet and settled on his face.

"I'm-" he started, but she cut him off with a brilliant smile that made the cramped hallway a thousand times brighter.

"I know who you are. Come inside."

**A/N: This qualifies as an end. If you want to, stop reading hear and don't read Chapter 8. It is not a happy ending, and I've known it was coming since I started writing this (two months ago, during math). Obviously I can't force you not to read the next chapter, and I'm still going to post it for any masochists, and because Caspian has spoken, and I must do as they wish. But I shall not be held personally responsible for any reactions to the end (unless they are good, in which case I reserve the right to say I knew you'd love it all along.)**

**Thanks for reading/reviewing!**

**-esking.**


	8. The End part 2

**Chapter 8**

**Just Kidding**

**This is it. If you're reading this, you're resigned to the worst (well not the very worst. It's not as bad as say, the Holocaust, or World War III). I must first inform you that I have discovered a new joy in life: peanut butter snickers. They are heavenly. You should also all look up Remi Gaillard on Youtube. You will laugh. Especially on "Best of Elevator." Okay, here goes.**

**Disclaimer: Nothing's changed. I still don't own Inception. I have received an official warning about Mutua from the police. All mustached men have received an official warning about their facial hair from. Fair's fair.**

Eames derived no pleasure from sending the boy off in such a brutal fashion. Contrary to popular belief, he was not actually a sadist. And anyway, he'd given the kid a mission, somewhere to continue. He'd given him more time. That was good works in Eames' book. Would it really have been better to tell the truth? Somehow, he didn't think so.

_Eames watched Arthur continue to the edge of the parking lot, until he became nothing more than a blurry silhouette And then there was a heart-stopping BANG! and the silhouette dropped out of sight. Eames jumped horribly and hunched down in the seat as far as he could go. He heard three more shots fired in quick, precise procession, and a gruff voice say, "What about the other one?"_

_ Throwing caution to the wind, Eames threw the van into reverse and peeled away from the building. He didn't stop driving until he'd crossed over two city limits, where he hopped on the first plane out of the country and didn't look back. However calm he may have seemed, Fischer was a force to be reckoned with. He wasn't safe, and wouldn't be anywhere under the sun. But there were some places where the light of civilization didn't shine so brightly (even if the real one did to an almost unbearable level). Eames knew of his fair share of hiding places, but the one at which he knew he would never be found, was the one place at which his discovery had been the start of the whole mess in the first place: Mombasa._

No, it would be better if Andrew just continued to believe that his father was missing, was out in the world somewhere, continuing his criminal affairs with the same precision and efficiency as ever. Andrew and Ariadne could reminisce fondly, maybe go on a treasure hunt, but eventually he would give up. They both would. Nothing to worry about. Not his business.

**A/N: I warned you. Thanks for reading. I've got a few other stories ready for uploading, including a prologue to this one, which will be shorter, and I hope you'll read them too. For you who are so educated in the ways of koalas, keep an eye out for Mutua in my other stories, as he does have a habit of being where he isn't supposed to (like Africa, for instance.) **

**-esking**


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